Light Refreshments Served

As if I needed any more indications of how old I am, I have just discovered two more things that I “predate.”  The first, warehouse shopping, is not so alarming. I remember fondly my first wide-eyed foray into a Sam’s Club–the astonishing array of giant-sized containers, the prices that made it cheaper to buy the full-on 5-gallon tub of Cheez Balls even if you knew you’d end up tossing half of them (though how you can discern when a Cheez Ball has gone bad is a mystery to me).

But it was more disconcerting to be perusing my grocery-store receipt the other day and have it flash into my mind that I remembered the first grocery store in our area to implement such itemized receipts. I remember being shown the UPC on the bottom of a box of crackers and being told what it was for. And I distinctly remember thinking, “Oh, I’m so sure! Like they’re going to put that ugly little computer thingie on every product they sell!”

Life before the barcode. I’m really feeling like a dinosaur now.

Last week, when I went for that emergency root canal, I noticed as I came out of the dentist’s office that the building next door was the Silverado care center, which specializes in Alzheimer’s care. I knew that within its walls lived my former boss, my mentor, the woman who hired me and taught me most of what I know about my career today. I owe so much to this woman. Beyond that, she is my friend. I have been meaning to go there and visit with her for the past two or three years. I’ve planned it, forgotten it, thought about it, set it aside, even avoided it, but I knew in my heart that this was the day.

So I took a deep breath and went in the door to the reception area. It took some time for me to find my friend, who wasn’t in her room. They finally steered me back to a common room where a man was singing oldies at a piano and several patients were sitting around in chairs or wheelchairs.

I had steeled myself. “She probably won’t remember you,” I told myself. But another part of me thought that she might. I knew that short-term memory was the first to leave in such cases. I thought maybe our relationship had been far enough in the past (it started over 30 years ago) that some spark of it might still be in there. I slipped up to the front, where the helpful attendant had directed me to one of the wheelchair patients.

It was my friend, although I’m not sure I would have recognized her out of context. She was asleep in the chair. I sat down beside her. She stirred once, opening her eyes and looking closely at me. I took her hand and smiled. And got no reaction at all. After a few seconds of blank staring, she closed her eyes again. I stayed for about half an hour, singing along with the pianist and the patients who were awake enough to participate. And then I left.

I don’t know that I’ll ever go back. If I thought it would give her some pleasure just to have the human interaction, I might, though it’s clear to me that she will never know me again in this life. This time, though, there wasn’t even that degree of connectedness to the world. She simply wasn’t there.

So I know that it’s not enough to keep your mind active and do crossword puzzles and logic problems and go to the symphony and read, read, read. Those were the defining activities of my friend’s life, and the Alzheimer’s still came.

On the other side of the coin, we found out several years ago that my father suffers from Parkinson’s disease. It’s a degenerative muscle condition, and we have watched the struggle get harder to move, to complete even basic tasks, even to eat. (Did you know your tongue is a muscle? It keeps the food in your mouth long enough for you to chew it. If it doesn’t work properly, the food slips down and you can easily choke or aspirate it into your lungs.) But Dad’s mind is still agile, and he continues to work on several mathematical/logic problems that I would describe here if I had the slightest idea what the heck they meant. He still goes to plays and concerts and writes e-mails. I don’t know how much pain he might be in, but I know he’s enormously patient with the excruciatingly long time it takes to do anything.

Which is worse? I have found myself wondering lately. Would I rather have a mind without a working body or a body without a working mind? I begin to understand why there can’t be a fulness of joy without spirit and body inseparably connected. And I recognize, with a jolt, that there are precious few of us in this world who get to live comfortably in our own homes until we’re about 95 and then quietly pass away in our sleep.

Is this what enduring to the end will really mean, ultimately? Just plain keeping faith with life until it’s time to leave it?

I don’t know what my own future holds, and I’m actually really glad. I’m not sure I’d be brave enough. What I DO know is that I’m savoring my present a lot more eagerly now. I’m loving the fact that, as pudgy and sluggish and unglamorous as it is, I have a body that still mostly does what I ask it to. I’m appreciating a brain that works (most of the time) and relationships that I can hold dear and keep close to my heart.

And I’m grateful beyond measure to KNOW that, even if mortality takes all those things away, I’ll get them back one day.

Yesterday I turned 36. I, for one, am very excited to be firmly ensconced in middle age. I believe it’s a category I can really compete in. Suddenly, all my physical standards have dropped. “I look pretty good. . . for a middle-aged woman.” “I’m quite fit. . . for a middle-aged woman.” “I dress rather stylishly. . . for a middle-aged woman.” Frankly, I’m over the moon! (I’m required to say that– it’s a common saying among the middle-aged.) On the other hand, I’m relatively new to middle-age. I’m an early middle-ager. So I can get away with incompetence in some areas. In another five years, however, I will certainly have to cook a turkey and start making meaningful comments in Sunday School. But for now I can revel in anonymity among the young hipsters (who wrote me off six years ago) and bask in the warm middle-aged welcome. (We have so much in common–Not only do we “get” technology, we can afford it! But we haven’t forgotten our roots: Atari). It’s a good place to be.

I may not get away with stupid naive crap like I did when I was twenty, and I still have a good fifteen years before I can safely turn obstinate, eccentric, and gassy. But for now I’m definitely still in the game. . . a game I like to call, “watching Law and Order every night until I doze off.” Because that’s a game I can win.

Lisa’s birthday post below made me chuckle, really, because although I know she is older than she has ever been before, she still has no idea what things are in store for her that are really going to make her feel old. As a birthday salute, and to help Lisa see how young she really is (from MY vantage point), I offer these ten indicators that age is creeping up:

1. The cute newlywed couples in your ward begin to be your children’s peers rather than your own.

2. You spend an evening swapping surgery stories with your friends, and realize that you really ENJOYED that conversation.

3. You catch a glimpse of a tired-looking, gray-haired, plump woman in a shop window as you’re walking down the street – and you realize she is you.

4. Your mom becomes a great-grandmother.

5. You feel a keen interest in the retirement plan at your work.

6. Potty training seems like a distant nightmare from another world.

7. You personally remember Apostles and Presidents of the Church whom your kids have barely heard of.

8. Your kids beg to wear your old clothes for “Decades Day” at school. (And by “old clothes” I mean the stuff that is still hanging in your closet in hopes that you might lose enough weight to fit into it again someday.)

9. Your bishop, stake president, and all your healthcare professionals are younger than you, and you prefer it that way.

10. No one pats you on the stomach anymore and asks when your baby is due.

It’s my birthday, and I’m okay with it. I really believe that age has nothing to do with a number (and everything to do with presents and treats). I think that age is all about how you think, feel, and act. Those frolicking years of youth are long gone. They’re too busy loitering at the local “Gas ‘N Go” and texting their friends to notice I’m not there.

The good news is I don’t really care. It’s not the kind of “I don’t care” that makes you cool as a teen (yes, another evidence of my aging vocabulary, I refer to the youth of today as a “teen”)–the kind that makes you pierce your nose or dye your hair purple–the kind that is secretly desperate that you will notice, but it’s the kind of “I don’t care” that forgets what’s cool because its too busy thinking about what kind of soup to have for dinner at 5 o’clock.

First example: It was my father’s birthday last week and I suggested we go to Chuck-a-rama for lunch. Why? Everyone knows that only old people like Chuck-a-rama. This point was really solidified as I pulled up and saw two walkers and a wheelchair roll on in the front door. That’s not a joke. It’s like someone placed them there to prove a point. My father loves eating there, but the truth is I secretly do, too. It’s good, hot food, and the restaurant is clean. Seriously, the place is immaculate. Our waitress filled our drinks and spoke slowly and softly. The medium age there was 75. I had a great time.

Second example: My mom took me shopping for my birthday. We went to Forever 21, and I complained, out-loud, that the music was way too loud, and eventually left because everything was too trendy, or I couldn’t figure out how to put some of the shirts on (front? back?), or the pants were too low-rise, and I don’t have the patience for any of that. If wearing pants that actually goes to my waist make me old, then I’m okay with that. We ended up at Chico’s, and I found an outfit that I really like. Again, a place for the seasoned woman, but I liked the outfit she bought me. A lot.

Mother nature’s sick, twisted joke is that I’ve broken out this week worse than I ever did as a teenager. I have oily skin and the beginning of crow’s feet. But I really don’t care (I wonder if I should have the tomato bisque or the french onion?) I don’t think this is an issue of cool/uncool. I’m convinced it’s an issue of young/old. Let’s face it: I dress and eat well for an old person.

(Do you think I’m young or old?)

Kacy: Happy Birthday! I thought we could meet at Gas-N-Go later? Haha! Seriously. What time? Text me.

Emily: You’ve had a birthday: shout hooray! I hate to disillusion you, but you have to be way older than you are now to feel old. If you DO text Kacy, that will be exhibit 1 for your continued youth.

Kristy:  For your birthday I got you this confession:  The last time my mother-in-law was visiting, we went clothes shopping at the same store and (are you ready?  this is like the confetti part of my gift) WE BOUGHT THE SAME SHIRT.